yellow murders toil in their prison. the day is always born. forever dead.
her words are an intersection. everything is turning.
the hours shrug. the distance sighs. she doesn't want to know the world. it doesn't need to know her. all sand and gnats in a bald charisma of corruption. an impotent chorus of
hounds barking from behind their fences.
the bridge is low and loud and impossible to forgive.